Hot-eyed Mafia Queen!
At the trim garden's edge
She sways towards August.
A Bumble Bee
Clambers into her drunken, fractured goblet—
Up the royal carpet of a down-hung,
Shrivel-edged, unhinged petal, her first-about-to-fall.
He's in there as she sways. He utters thin
Sizzling beats of difficult enjoyment.
Her carnival paper skirts, luminous near-orange,
Embrace him helplessly.
Already her dark pod is cooking its drug.
Every breath imperils her. Her crucible
Is falling apart with its own fierceness.
A fly, cool, rests on the flame-fringe.
Soon she'll throw off her skirts
Withering into vestal afterlife,
Bleeding inwardly
Her maternal nectars into her own
Coffin—(cradle of her offspring).
Then we shall say:
"She wore herself in her hair, in her day,
And we could see nothing but her huge flop of petal,
Her big, lewd, bold eye in its sooty lashes,
And that stripped, athletic leg, hairy,
In a fling of abandon—"
